Star Gazers
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: It was supposed to be a regular guys' night out on the roof, until she showed up. A fluffy bit of TrishRandy cuteness. Rated for mature dialogue and situations.
1. Guys Night Out

**Star Gazers**

_A/N: Okay, so this is another short story that I've been toying with for awhile. The title comes from Green Day's Are We the Waiting - my favorite song of the moment. It's only going to be about three chapters long, I think, but it's what I like to call "mellow fluff." There's nothing super-dramatic - just some realistic conversation, kinda like "Puppy Love." That's another one of my short stories. And if you haven't checked it out? Why the hell not? Anyway - let me know what you think. I don't own any of these guys, and you should know that by now. Enjoy!

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Randy Orton watched as Dave Batista stood before the mirror in the hotel room the old friends were sharing. "Dude, come on. We're gonna be late." Everyone accused him of being the pretty boy in the group, the one who couldn't go five minutes without looking in a mirror. Well, Randy knew himself pretty well. And he had also known a lot of women, and not even they spent as much time examining themselves in the mirror as Dave did.

With a grunt, and a glance over his enormous shoulder, Dave sat his comb on the counter top and shrugged. "I'm comin'," he insisted.

With another roll of his eyes, the younger of the two men shoved his wallet into his back pocket and walked toward the door of the room. "Man, we're not even goin' anywhere," Randy pointed out, tossing another look over his shoulder.

Dave was now watching his reflection in the surface of a glass vase on the entry table. It wasn't that he considered himself vain. On the contrary, he was the last to talk about himself. But he couldn't deny that he was pretty, and sometimes he just liked to see the face that was driving women all over the world crazy.

Even if they weren't doin' anything more than sitting on the roof with the old gang, talkin' about what was up in their lives now. "I'm sure Hunter will bring you a nice, shiney beer bottle to stare into half the night," he teased as they stepped into the hallway.

"There you are," Shelton Benjamin's voice filled the tiny hall as Randy and Dave exited their room. Offering a hand to each of his old, OVW friends, the RAW superstar greeted them and looked at his watch.

"Sorry, man," Randy apologized quickly. "The diva here had to make sure his make up wasn't smeared."

Back in the day in Louisville, when the three men and their friend John Cena had all shared a tiny two bedroom apartment, they had started the tradition of meeting after shows to unwind with conversations on the roof. The apartment gave way to hotels, when all four made it to the big stage, but the routine was always the same: meet up, go to the roof, drink, laugh or vent, and then stumble to bed way later than they knew they should. Now, however, the core four had been separated, via Raw and Smackdown, and could only get together when the brands merged for supershows or PPV's.

As Dave and Shelton talked about the evening's agenda, Randy let his eyes drift to the end of the hall. She was beautiful, leaning against the wall in her jeans and her sweater, laughing at something Hunter was telling her. There was something about Trish Stratus that turned Randy's head around. Something that other women just didn't possess - the "it" factor that couldn't be described in words, but wouldn't be ignored.

Fortunately, before anyone noticed him staring, the elevator doors dinged and John Cena stepped off, a huge smile on his full lips. "Let's get this party started," he announced, wrapping his arms around Trish. "You made it."

Randy watched as a twinge of guilt he couldn't explain crept into his gut. He and Trish were close enough to friends, at least cordial acquaintances. He had no reason to believe that he stood a chance with someone as together, and all-around cool as her. But he didn't know when, or very much like that, his friend had gotten so close to her - close enough to throw her beautiful body over his shoulder and carry her toward the roof.

When all was said and done, and they were situated carefully atop their hotel in downtown Los Angeles, eight tired faces stared at one another blankly. Triple H supplied the beer, and Batista passed around a box of Cuban cigars, while they shot meaningless shit about the show that had just wrapped.

Laying flat on the concrete roof, Randy looked at the sky and listened as those around him talked. On television, he was a cocky bastard who always had something to say about himself. In real life, he was perfectly content to sit back and let the others entertain him. He was the baby of the group, and sometimes he felt like their experiences, professionally and personally, were far more interesting than his own.

Trish watched quietly from her place on the fringe of the group. She was the Women's Champion, and in the ring, she was the center of all things "diva." But in real life, behind the black curtain, she always felt like an outsider. While the other girls were dating, or dancing, or doing whatever it was that normal women did, she was locked away in her hotel room, studying game tape and practicing new moves - most of which never saw the light of day. And as she watched the Women's Division slowly diminish, fading in favor of half-naked women with no ring skills, she felt even more alone.

She wasn't naïve. She knew why Hunter asked her to hang with him and his friends, even if she wanted to believe that it was due to her amazing mind and incredible athletic talent. The truth was, she was hotter than most of the women who came and went. And she didn't blush every time the boys tried to talk to her. So she earned her seat inside their little "club" and didn't try to pretend like it bothered her to be the only female on a roof top of libidinous men, who's conversation had quickly turned from business to, um, pleasure.

"Hey, Randall," Jericho called from his place across the roof. Lifting his head off the pavement, Randy opened one eye to look at the veteran, while stamping his finished cigar against the concrete beneath him. "How many girls did you get with when we were in London last time?"

Trish saw, in the faint glow of the street lights, a tiny blush creep into the Legend Killer's cheeks. How many times had she watched him back stage, seeing that little blush that defied everything he tried to portray in the ring? It wasn't blatant, and she doubted most would even notice it. But he wasn't the cocky son of bitch he wanted them to think he was. And she liked that.

"Um. . ." Closing his eyes, Randy tried to remember the last time he was in London. Part of him wanted to exaggerate, just to impress his friends. But having Trish a few feet away, sitting comfortably against the ledge of the rooftop, watching for his answer, made him want to tone the answer down a bit. "I think it was two," he lied.

"BULL SHIT," John shouted, the alcohol getting to him quicker than the others. "That is fuckin' bull shit," he added, slightly quieter when Shelton rolled his eyes and put a finger to his lips. "You were with at least three, man," he smiled.

Hoping to avoid confirming or denying that accusation, Randy hoisted himself into a seated position and pointed toward Christian. "What about you, man? I saw you at that strip club in Amsterdam."

Christian nodded proudly and held up four fingers. "But I didn't fuck 'em all, man." Receiving a high-five from Dave, he looked back around the circle and raised an eyebrow. "I only got to two of 'em - the others? I just watched."

There were hoots and catcalls, and Randy wished for a split second that his friends weren't so immature. There was a woman in their presence, after all. But instead of saying anything, and looking like a total goof, he just took another beer bottle and offered one to her.

Smiling, Trish accepted the bottle and thanked him quietly. There weren't many men who could impress her on appearance alone. But his blue eyes, his full lips, and his broad shoulders were nothing short of breath-taking. She remembered the first time she had laid eyes on the kid from St. Louis. And she remembered thinking a thousand dirty thought that she would never admit to, at least out loud.

"Okay, I got one," Shelton chimed in once they had finished congratulating Christian. "Most uncomfortable place you've ever fucked a girl?"

Six men looked at each other with twinkling eyes. "Up the ---" they started, and then stopped, cracking up at their own lame joke. Trish just watched, and waited for the answers. Truth be told, it was junior high conversation at best. But it was better than the nail polish and fashion conversation she would be having with the other girls, if she weren't here with the boys.

John held up a hand and then cleared his throat. "Alright, I'll go. I once fucked a chick in the front seat of a VW bug," he admitted. "It was goin' pretty well, too," he launched into his story, looking at each one of them to make sure they were enthralled in the tale he was weaving. "I was layin' across the seats and she was on top. But then she leaned back and accidentally sat on the gear shift," he laughed at the memory.

Hunter laughed, spitting a dribble of his beer. "She fucked you and the gear shift?" He had done some pretty kinky shit, but that was something straight out of the "internet porn" category.

Even Trish had to laugh at the thought, but John shook his head vehemently. "No, dude. She fuckin' screamed and jumped up, hit her head on the roof, and got all pissed. She was just like "take me home now, John," and she wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night." He sighed and dropped his head in resignation. "Add to that, the fact that my left leg had been jammed in between the seat and the door, and I got this horrible cramp that lasted for, like, three days."

Chris and Christian looked at each other knowingly and Chris nodded. Sipping from his beer, he leaned back and rested his weight on one arm. "About three years ago, we were doin' a show in Canada," he started, shooting a look at Trish when she giggled. "What?"

She had heard the story a million times, but only shook her head and mimicked zipping her lips. "Nothing. Go on."

With a simple roll of his eyes, he continued. "Anyway, so I met this chick backstage, and she was smokin' hot, right? Little blonde with the sweetest, perkiest tits you ever saw. So anyway, she invites me to this cabin she had in the woods - this place her parents owned, but never went to anymore. And we're outside of Toronto in January, so you can guess how nice the weather was.

"So it's colder than shit, and we drive up to this cabin. It's really secluded and everything, and she's all lookin' at me with these totally innocent eyes all night. So we had a couple drinks and then we went outside to sit on this bitchin' back porch and watch the stars," he closed his eyes, as if playing the movie over on the screen of his mind.

Shelton tried to conceal a snicker, but ended up nearly choking on his drink. In a high-pitched tone of mocking, he said, "Oh, Chris, that's so romantic."

Picking up a nearby rock, Chris chucked it at the young man and rolled his eyes. "So she's in my lap, right? And I'm, like, suckin' on her neck and shit, and she just starts grinding against me. So I'm totally sprung, and I'm just like "I gotta get off soon," only I forgot it was only, like, twenty below zero out there.

"So she turns around, unzips my pants and goes down there to suck me off, right? Only once I'm all wet, and the air hits me, I'm like, frozen solid." Six men groaned and carefully covered themselves. "Seriously - I thought it would never thaw. I drove home that night thinkin' about how I was going to explain hypothermia of the penis to the doctor."

Trish watched with a knowing smile as all of the guys groaned and grew quiet, thinking about the discomfort Jericho had just described. It never ceased to amaze her, the way they seemed to get off on talking about each other's sexual pain. Woman never did that - at least in her experience. She had never told anyone the stories about her most painful situations, and she wouldn't. Not if she could help it. That was just weird.

The low rumble of Dave's baritone broke the night sky. "Mine was on a plane. In the bathroom," he admitted.

Christian shook his head. "Bull shit."

Randy nodded along with his friend. He remembered the flight well. And he remembered thinking that he understood the concept of the "bull in the China shop" after sitting just outside the bathroom while the 6'5" 300 pounder fucked some chick inside the tiny restroom.

"Seriously," he smiled casually. "It wasn't easy, but we both got off, so," he shrugged and left the sentence incomplete.

Normally, she sat back and rolled her eyes as they regaled each other with their outrageous stories. But knowing the size of normal airplane bathrooms, and trying to imagine a guy like Batista having enough room to lower his pants, let alone get another person inside and move, at all, had her baffled.

"How?" she asked incredulously, noting that every set of eyes turned to her in that instant. Blushing, she looked toward Dave and shook her head. "I mean, you're so fuckin' big."

Shelton raised his hand and smirked at her. "Me next," he pleaded. "Say that to me next."

Seven drunk men cracked up laughing at his sophomoric joke, but Trish just rolled her eyes and looked back to Dave. "I'm serious. I mean, there is no fuckin' way you got Angie inside an airline bathroom and still had enough room to get her off." She had met his wife on several occasions. She was small, but not that small.

With a slight blush, Dave shook his head. "It wasn't Angie," he corrected, daring her with his expression to ask him who he had been with. "And I just got her up on the sink, put my foot on the side of the toilet, and kinda wiggled in there," he laughed at the complete ridiculousness of what he had just described.

She wanted to ask who, but before she got the chance, John blurted out, "I told you Christy was small enough to fuck just about anywhere, didn't I, Randall?"

Randy shrugged and laid on his back once again. Once again, his thoughts wondered to what Trish must be thinking of them. Here they were, drunk and talkin' about orgies and uncomfortable sexual predicaments, not to mention casually discussing these women, even though they all knew that Chris, Dave, Hunter, and Christian all had wives waiting for them at home. She had to think they were completely debauched.

But, if he was honest, he had to admit that they were. Living the full life of a WWE superstar made it hard not to be. Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll were the theme of life on the road, and none of these men were willing to sit back and watch it pass by. Least of all, Randy Orton, though he wasn't about to bust out any true confessions with Trish sitting six feet away.

"What about you, Hunter? You gotta have somethin' in your arsenal?" Christian finally asked the man who had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the night.

His eyes darted across the roof top to the young woman who was watching him intently. There were stories he could tell, and he would tell, if she hadn't been there. The kinkiest, hottest, most exciting sex he'd ever had was with Trish, but rehashing that now seemed wrong. Instead, he shrugged and finished his third cigar. "I fucked Steph on Vince's desk once."

It was lame, and everyone knew it. But Orton was the only one who laughed. "Sorry," he muttered when his former mentor shot him an angry look. "Dude, it's just kinda obvious that's not the worst you've ever done," he pointed out.

Her heart broke for him just a little bit as Trish watched Hunter try to think of something that would impress his friends without embarrassing her. But she didn't have anything to be embarrassed about. They had been together for awhile, long before he had married Stephanie, and it was over now. They had done all the things that boyfriends and girlfriends do, and then they had stopped.

"Tell 'em about the time in New York - when we went to that concert," she suggested.

A broad smile stretched over his lips as he launched into the story about the infamous CBGB's incident. "So, the band was pretty lame, but the alcohol was good. And she was really feelin' it," he chuckled to himself. "Practically dragged me to the bathroom, which was maybe the most fuckin' disgusting place I've ever been in my life."

"Worse than that brothel in Belguim?" Christian asked, but shut up when the older man shot him a warning glare.

"Anyway," Hunter cleared his throat and looked at the men around him. "There was this dude on the floor, like layin' in his own vomit. And she just pushes me into the stall, slams me into the wall, and drops to her knees."

Trish remembered the night, and the subsequent morning after, all-to-well. Without much permission from her brain, her mouth took over the story. "You kept tellin' me we were gonna get a disease," she laughed. "So we moved it to a janitor's closet, which was ten times smaller, and he kept hittin' his head on this shelf full of floor cleaner."

Randy wasn't really listening as she finished the story about sucking Hunter off in a grungy closet. He didn't want her to be one of the guys. He didn't want to believe that the little Trish he had concocted in his mind had the ability to be anything more than sweet and innocent. Sure, he knew she had dated Hunter - The Game told everybody. But he didn't want to think about them having sex - especially drunk in a punk club closet.

"Alright," Chris was the first to stand and check his watch. "I hate to bail on y'all, but I have a little lady to call and check in with." Though they teased him about being whipped, the other three married men followed quickly.

When Shelton helped a more-than-slightly-drunk John to his feet, the WWE Champion turned to Trish and extended his hand. "Can I walk you back to your room?"

She laughed, but Shelton just shot her an apologetic look and put an arm around his friend's shoulder. "How 'bout you just worry about walkin' you back to your room, okay?"

When he heard the door slam behind the last of his friends, Randy risked a look over at Trish. "We should probably head in soon, too," he muttered

Nodding, she scooted over next to him and layed back against the concrete. "Maybe we could just stay here for awhile?" She wasn't sure what kind of power the young Legend Killer possessed - what would make her want to lay with him under the stars when she knew she needed sleep. But something about his silence drew her in, and she wanted to make him talk. She suddenly felt the need to know everything about Randy Orton, all of the things nobody else knew.

With a bright smile, Randy nodded and turned his gaze back to the stars. They could twinkle and shine all they wanted, but they would never be as bright, or as beautiful, as the woman laying beside him at that moment.


	2. The Trifecta

**Star Gazers**

_A/N: Wow, so the "writer's block" demons have been on my case BIG TIME lately. Sorry it's taken so long to get this up for you guys. Thanks for the great reviews in chapter one, and I hope you enjoy this one. I don't own Randy or Trish, in case you forgot in the wait between chapters. Enjoy!

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"You know what I find really ironic?" Trish sighed and shifted her body, trying to find some comfort on the cold concrete.

A million sarcastic remarks flowed through his mind, but Randy thought better than to let any of them out. "Hmm?" he asked casually.

With another deep breath, Trish focused on the sky above her, trying to find some distraction from the intoxicating scent of the man beside her. "The stars here look exactly like the ones in Toronto."

Randy raised an eyebrow and then rolled his head to the side, considering her for a moment. "Are you serious?" She nodded. "Um, Trish, I think they're the same ones. I mean, I don't remember a lot from science classes, but I don't think there are Canadian stars and American stars. I think they're all the same."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant." The way he grinned back nearly derailed her train of thought completely. "Well, it kind of is. Is it weird that I just realized, at twenty-nine-years-old, that the stars are the same for everybody? That we all look up, no matter who or where we are, and see the same exact stars staring back at us?"

Randy shook his head, everything inside of him straining not to wrap his arms around her. If he thought back, he had never experienced a one-on-one conversation with Trish, not when they were completely alone. And now he knew why. She was too perfect, and he was way too likely to make an ass out of himself. "Are you kidding? You're talking to a guy who ponders shit like why the "bunny" leaves "eggs" at Easter."

A loud giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it. The sigh that followed was a peaceful contrast to the thumping bass of a passing car on the street below. "I never really got that, either," she admitted.

For him, it felt as though the invisible barrier between them crumbled at the sound of her laughter. An easy air settled over them, and Randy found his shoulders, which he hadn't realized were tense, suddenly relaxing. "You know what else I don't get?" She didn't answer, and he didn't wait for her to. "Valentine's Day."

With a shrug, Trish grunted. "Of course you don't."

"Hey," Randy shot defensively, and Trish reached her hand out, as if to steady him with a reassuring touch. If that was her aim, even subconsciously, it was working. He found the warmth of her skin against his to be the most calming gesture he had ever experienced.

She had meant only to lazily smack him, like she would any of the other guys who misinterpreted her comments. "I just meant that you're a guy," she tried to explain, her voice dripping with lazy contentment as the back of her hand, of its own volition, trailed up and down his arm slowly. "No guy gets Valentine's Day," she added.

With a shrug, he tried to play it off. He wanted Trish to see him as anything but just another guy. He wanted her to think he was the coolest guy, the best guy. He, in no way, wanted to be another regular guy, who's sole ambitions in life were to master more video games than his friends, drink as much alcohol as possible without passing out, and fuck as many random women as he could before he was roped into settling down. Or, he didn't want her to think he was that guy, anyway.

"Don't worry," Trish broke into his thoughts, and Randy blushed. Was it possible that she knew what he was thinking? "It's like the penis blocks your ability to grasp a holiday like Valentine's Day."

Realizing that she was still talking about the aforementioned topic, not reading his mind, Randy allowed himself to relax once more. "I would act offended," he sighed, "but I think you're probably right."

A thick silence fell between them and Trish realized that she had stopped rubbing Randy's arm, and just started holding his hand. When it had happened she didn't know, but it felt so natural that she refused to question it. The deep resonance of his voice filled the air, and Trish shifted just enough that their arms were touching in the darkness.

"So, can I guess the problem you have with Valentine's Day?" she asked suddenly.

Randy had a few rules about women – one was that any time they started to psychoanalyze him, it was time to run. But the tone in Trish's voice made him feel high – like he was floating along on a mellow rush, and he just didn't feel like running. "Sure."

His hand raised hers, resting their elbows on his chest as he played gently with her fingers, rolling them between his. "So, here's my theory." She turned her head to find him staring at their entwined hands. "I think you have a problem with Valentine's Day because it involves being committed to one woman, showing her how you feel. Guys hate that shit."

Rolling his eyes, he dropped her hand and struggled to sit. "That's not it," he insisted. "In fact, Miss I'm So Smart, I've always had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day."

Hoisting herself into a seated position, Trish moved opposite him and pulled her knees to her chest. "Seriously?" She had known him for a few years now, and she didn't remember hearing much about any serious girlfriends. Of course, if she was honest, she didn't know much about him at all.

There were a million things that two people who barely knew each other could talk about. Why did she have to pick the topic of exes? Nodding, he fought through the alcohol-haze in his mind for anything more interesting. There had to be something. Dammit. Why did he have to sit there and drink while his friends talked? "Usually Stacy, at least the last couple years."

She hadn't meant to roll her eyes, or mutter "of course" under her breath. It just kind of slipped out in the ease of the moment. "Sorry." Randy just laughed, as though he understood the reaction. "It's just that I don't get it, ya know? The attraction to Stacy. She's nice and everything," Trish started.

Randy laughed to himself and nodded. She _was_ nice – everything about Stacy Keibler was nice, from her sweet little smile, to her long, long legs. But he didn't want to talk about Stacy, not while he was with Trish. "You dated Hunter, so don't start," he warned playfully.

With a deep blush, Trish lowered her head and then shrugged. "Yeah, but he's so not like his in-ring character," she tried to defend herself. Until it occurred to her that she had no reason to be defensive. "What's wrong with Hunter?"

There wasn't a damn thing wrong with Hunter, and that alone was reason enough for Randy to hate him. Well, not Hunter the man, just Hunter the ex-boyfriend. Telling her that the man was sometimes an arrogant jackass who believed way too much of his own hype seemed to be the most imperfect way to end the evening, though. And Randy didn't want it to end. Not yet.

"There's nothing wrong with him. It's just," he tried to think of a way to explain it. "It's like how you feel about Stacy. It's not that I don't like him, I just don't get it."

She wanted him to understand. Trish realized that she wanted Randy to understand everything that she was thinking about every subject that popped into her head. So she leaned back and stretched her legs out beside him, supporting her weight on one arm. "He's got the trifecta," she explained. "He's got power, charm, and attitude. The three things that women find most attractive, whether they admit it or not."

He was skeptical, at best. "What happened to a sense of humor? Isn't that what every girl says? That's why they all love John so much." Fluttering his eyelashes, he put on his best high-pitched voice, "Oh, John, you're so funny. Everything you say is so funny. You're just so funny, all the time."

Trish laughed out loud, a lilting giggle that permeated the night air. "To me, that's part of charming. Every other cliché answer fits into one of the trifecta. Success, money, cars – they're all symbols of power. Humor, sensitivity, all that other bull shit that your momma taught you? They're part of your charm. And the confidence, the rebellion or the silent strength, whether you like the good or the bad boy? That's attitude."

Randy thought about her words, and fought the urge to ask if he had the trifecta – was he all three of the things she was looking for? Could he ever be the man she wanted, or needed? For fear of sounding like a complete dolt, he bit back the question. "So, I guess Stacy has the trifecta, too. Only not yours. She has the chick one."

Trish waited in anticipation to hear just what the "chick one" was. The silence that engulfed him was a pretty good indicator that he didn't know, either, but his "thinking" face was so cute that she didn't interrupt. Considering his strong features, she watched as he processed his next words carefully. "I'm not gonna be offended by anything," she assured him.

With his thoughts collected, Randy spoke. "She's got mind, body, and soul." It was corny, and he knew it, but it was all he could think of. And it made sense to him, at least while he was slightly drunk and nearly asleep. So all he could do was sit back and wait for Trish to laugh.

Biting back the groan and the eye-roll, leaned forward slightly. "Meaning?"

"Fuck," Randy cringed and met her gaze with a sheepish blush. He was well aware of the pink tint in his cheeks, and wished against everything that it would go away. "I knew you were gonna ask that."

It was as though every single thing he did was the cutest thing she had ever seen. The urge to actually say the word "aww" had crept up on her more than once since they had been left alone, and if she hadn't been afraid of sounding like a stupid girl, she would have said it. "Mind? Guys don't give a fuck about the mind, do they?" she asked instead.

Rolling his eyes, Randy stretched his long legs out, resting them at either side of her tiny body. Some women made him feel confident, others made him feel determined. Some turned him on, others annoyed him to no end. But none of them had ever made him feel as comfortable as Trish. It was as if they had been friends in another life or something. And it gave him hope that they could be in this one, too.

"I don't know. Some guys find smart girls really sexy," he answered, biting his lip as he met her eyes. "At least, that's what I hear." Trish playfully swatted at his knee, and he laughed. "What? I like a smart chick sometimes. At least one who knows what's up, ya know? Who's not completely out of the loop." Trish just nodded. "At least not for more than a night or two."

With another chuckle, Trish turned and shifted her body until she resting comfortably against one of his legs. Returning her eyes to the sky again, she tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make her sound like a complete idiot. Talking to a good looking man was not a new sensation for Trish. In fact, it was kind of old hat, after working as a model and a wrestler for so long. But there was just something about Randy Orton. Something just under the surface of his superficial façade that tilted her axis, made her feel like she was walking a tight rope. And the adrenaline rush that it caused was the greatest high she had ever experienced.

After a few minutes of silence, Randy was almost certain that Trish had drifted off to a land of dreams. Her breathing was steady, her body still. Returning his thoughts to the sky, he wondered what he was supposed to do now. Did he sleep here, with her, on the cement roof for the entire night? Or did he pick her up and carry her back to his room? Or her room? There was no way he was escaping any of this without being discovered – he would hear about "that time you spent the night on the roof with Stratus" until he retired.

"I like you," she spoke so softly, he barely heard it. On a normal night, in any other place, he would have been jumping for joy – maybe doing standing backflips or something.

But here, he merely basked in the glow of the words that were flowing over him. They entered his ears, and filled him all the way to his toes, cleansing him as they moved through his system. "I like you," he answered back, trying his best not to move, to disturb her in any way.

The words "it just happened" had always seemed like a cop out to Trish, an excuse given when her friends didn't want to cough up details. But she realized, at that moment, that sometimes it did just happen. It wasn't planned, or dramatic, or overwhelming. She wasn't even sure what _it_ was, but she knew that it was happening between Randy and herself.

Just before sunrise, Randy walked Trish back to her room, holding her hand and praying that none of his friends would be up early enough to see them. It wasn't time to let the rest of the world in on their little secret yet, on the bond that they were forming. He wanted to ask her on a date, but the term seemed so formal when applied to what they were developing.

Instead, he asked her to hang with him again after that night's show. It was simple, no pressure, no expectations. Neither of them could really say they'd experienced anything like the last seven hours, but neither could deny that it felt right.


	3. The Nickname Game

**Star Gazers**

_A/N: First of all, I just wanna say thanks to everyone who is still reading this stuff, even though I've seriously fallen down on writing it consistently. Knowing that you guys are still looking forward to reading it keeps me motivated to work through the writer's block and try to come up with something entertaining. You are the best - thanks._

_This story was originally written in response to a request from a friend for something a little more light-hearted than Scar Tissue. You know who you are, and even though I know you won't get to read this until you get your power back (stupid bitch Wilma), I just wanted to say a special thanks for staying on me and not letting me quit, even when I was about to give in. Love you, Chica! Also, to my other girlie, who's passion for her new story sparked something in me - you know who you are, and even though you think it's nothing, it means a lot to me._

_Just a slight disclaimer before this chapter - I, in NO WAY, own any of the superstars mentioned in this story. I also, in NO WAY, mean any harm by any of the characterizations I have made herein. All of my stories, but this one in particular, are meant for pure entertainment value. Sometimes comedy is not kind to everyone - I hope no one is offended. That being said - Enjoy! (And review, cause it's good for my motivation, and my ego!)

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Any superstar would readily tell you that dating, or marrying, someone who wasn't able to follow them around the country was difficult. No one knew that better than Randy Orton. Though his parents had managed to keep their marriage together, he knew all too well the strain that his father's traveling had put on their family. And the fact that every one of his own relationships had fallen apart since entering the business only added to his skepticism.

Of course, that was all before Trish Stratus came along. Though there had only been time for one date before their schedules ripped them apart again, countless telephone hours had been logged. Nights of endless laughter and story-telling bound them together, and both were just shy of admitting that this, whatever it was, was the best thing that had ever happened to either of them.

As he stepped off the plane in Dallas, Randy quickly hit her number on his speed dial and waited for her perfect giggle. "I'm here. Where are you?"

Trish didn't disappoint. "I'm at the baggage claim. How was your flight?"

They chit-chatted about turbulence and airline food until Randy found his way to the baggage claim area. There, in the back corner, with a cell phone at her ear, was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. She was dressed in jeans and tank top, smiling at him and waving. It nearly took his breath away, and filled him with a calming peace that he couldn't explain. No one had every done to his mind the things that she did to him.

She was in his arms and off the ground before Trish could hang her phone up. Randy was laughing and telling her how much he missed her, and she was eating it up. A lot of men made her feel sexy, but he made her feel beautiful. And, though she wasn't sure she could explain the difference, she knew it was important. Because she knew that nobody made her feel like he did.

With their fingers entwined, Randy pulled his bag behind him and smiled at a few girls who blushed and giggled, but didn't approach him. He was considering going over and introducing himself when Trish's voice broke into his thoughts.

"So, I hope you don't mind, but my car's kinda on the fritz, so I caught us a ride."

He really didn't care if they had to walk thirty miles to the next town, as long as he could touch her, see her, smell her, and hear her laugh all at the same time. Instead of saying so, he nodded. "Whatever gets us there," he smiled, dropping a kiss on her nose spontaneously.

Trish nodded toward the dark SUV waiting for them, and waited. "Um," was all she could say before the back door opened and Christy Hemme bounded out with a bandana on her head and a smile on her face.

"Hey, guys," she smiled happily, grabbing Randy's suitcase and throwing it into the trunk. "How was your flight, Randy?"

Sliding into the back seat, Trish waited for Randy to join her and pretended to ignore the smirk on Victoria's face as her long time friend sat behind the steering wheel. When the raven-haired diva let out a chuckle, Trish finally asked, "what?"

Victoria nodded toward Christy and Randy, who were now discussing some video game maneuver. "Looks like you might lose your girlfriend," she snickered. "I mean, boyfriend."

With a groan, Trish sank back in the seat and closed her eyes. Every diva knew that Christy had a huge crush on Trish, mostly because the young red-head made no attempt to hide it. She might have oozed sexuality for the boys on Monday nights, but behind the curtain, she was all about the "girl power." And she was determined to get herself some Stratusfaction, if it was the last thing she did.

When Christy finally took a breath, Randy climbed into the backseat of the truck, shooting a smile at Victoria before sliding his arm around Trish's seat. "Thanks for pickin' me up, Vic," he expressed.

Easing the vehicle away from the terminal, Victoria just shrugged. "Not like I had much choice." She merged into traffic and watched Christy adjust the knob on the radio. "And you'll tip generously, so I'm not worried."

Randy raised an eyebrow. He had always liked Victoria - she was tough, but she was sarcastic, dry and witty. They had done a few autograph signings together, and he found her to be enjoyable company. There was time when he had really wished he was physically attracted to her - when he thought they would have made a pretty good couple. But being friends with her was better - plus, it freed him to be with Trish now.

"What does that mean?" Christy asked suddenly, as though the words had just registered in her brain. "Tip generously?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at Randy and Trish broke into a fit of giggles.

With a shrug, Victoria watched the traffic ahead of her as though she didn't even notice the bundle of energy in the seat beside her. "Gas, grass, or ass, baby. Nobody rides for free."

"Hey," Trish said suddenly, looking around the car. "Where's Maria? Isn't she ridin' with us?" She turned her body toward Randy, resting her hand on his knee. When he smiled at her, she forgot that she had even been asking a question.

Christy finally found a radio station that she liked and settled into her own seat, dancing to the beat as she spoke over her shoulder. "We're pickin' her up at the hotel. She wasn't ready to go yet."

Victoria mumbled something that made Christy laugh, but Trish hardly noticed. Randy's hand was over hers on her knee and it felt like the entire world had melted away. "Huh?" she finally asked, her eyes never leaving the contented smile on his lips.

"She said "she wasn't ready to get off Carlito's dick yet"," Christy repeated.

Randy's eyes shot toward the perky diva in surprise. "What?"

With the roll of her eyes, Christy looked at Trish. "This is the guy who won your heart? This is my competition? Seriously?" Speaking to Randy as though he were a child, Christy explained the statement. "It means that she was fucking Carlito and she wasn't ready to stop. Fucking? You know? Sexual intercourse?"

Another round of laughter erupted from Trish's throat as she watched the expression on Randy's face. With a confident look, she smiled at Christy. "He's Randy fucking Orton. You think he doesn't know what it means?"

As Victoria eased the car to a stop in front of the hotel, Randy wasn't sure where to look or what to say. Sure, his friends had conversations like that all the time, but these weren't his friends. These were the girls - his girlfriend's friends. And as Maria climbed into the truck, and they all started to tease her mercilessly, he wondered how much more uncomfortable this car ride would get.

"So?" Trish was the first to ask when the giggling and the catcalls died down. Maria shook her head and blushed and Trish reached her hand out. Christy reluctantly withdrew a twenty dollar bill from her purse and handed it over with the roll of her eyes. "Thank you so much."

Noticing the confounded look on Randy's face, Trish kissed his nose, as he had done to her earlier, and tucked the bill into the back pocket of her jeans. "I told Christy that anyone who talks as much as Carlito has got to have the world's smallest dick, and she didn't believe me. So she bet me twenty bucks that it was at least as big as Grisham's, but clearly," she pointed to Maria's pink cheeks, "it is not."

Christy huffed and turned around in her seat, watching the road. "What do I know about dick size? I'm a motherfuckin' lesbian for chrissake!"

If Randy had looked surprised before, the gasp that he let out was nothing short of astounded. "You're a what?"

Trish, Victoria, and Maria all burst into uproarious laughter as Christy turned and winked at him. "Hot, ain't it?"

She watched him carefully, and Randy fought like hell not to blush. He could tell from the way Trish laid her hand against his cheek that he was losing that battle. "How did I not know that?" was all he could manage to mumble. After a moment, his eyes grew wider and he looked straight at Christy. "Wait - you said. . ." he stopped and looked to Trish. "She totally has a crush on you."

If she thought he was the cutest guy in the world before, she was sure of it now. Rolling her eyes, she gave an exasperated look to Christy and then back to Randy. "Yeah, I know. And she's not shy about it, either."

Once he overcame the initial shock of the news, Randy settled back and wrapped his arm around Trish's shoulder, kissing the side of her head gently. "Sorry, Hemme," he winked. "She's mine."

Christy just scrunched her nose, but Trish smacked his stomach lightly. "I am not _yours_," she corrected defiantly. "I belong to no one. I am my own woman."

Randy rolled his eyes. They had gone over this a hundred times in the last few weeks, but he still loved the irritation in her voice when she insisted she was one hundred percent independent. "I just meant," he smiled, wrapping his fingers around hers, "that you belong _with_ me, not _to_ me, Sweetheart."

With a broad smile, Trish rewarded his "save" with a soft kiss. "That was very good," she giggled softly.

"Oh. my. god," Victoria gasped from the front seat. When Trish and Randy both looked at her quizzically, she laughed. "I never thought I'd see the day," she shook her dark hair and returned her eyes to the road.

Randy sat confused as Trish's questioning grin was replaced with a proud smile. "Only took me a few weeks, too," she said proudly.

"A few weeks without sex." Maria pointed out. "It'll never last," she predicted.

Christy drank from a large bottle of water and turned in her seat, leaning against the dashboard as she spoke. "All guys are whipped until they get ass. After that, the dinners and pillow talk are over," she spoke as though she had some authority on the subject.

Feeling an overwhelming need to defend his gender, he opened his mouth and then shut it again. He was outnumbered. There was no way he was going to escape this conversation unscathed. "How would you know?" he asked Christy finally. "You don't even fuck guys."

She winked and took another drink. "And why do you think that is, Randall?" She waited for his quick retort, but none came. "Well, it's because I was born that way. . . but still," she sighed and looked burdened by the explanation she would be forced to give. "Guys think they're smooth, that we don't know your just being nice to get what you want. But we know," she nodded. "Hell, even Maria knows the game," she pointed to the woman sitting directly behind her.

Maria's wide eyes grew slightly in mock hurt as she smacked the back of the seat. "Hey," her voice raised in defiance. "I'm not a dumbass," she insisted, softly mumbling "I just play one on TV," in an unconvincing manner. After flipping Christy off, she turned to Randy and put a hand on his arm. "Look, you're not the only ones that play the game, okay? Girls do it, too," she assured him.

Trish watched Maria's small hand moving up and down Randy's bicep. She had never been the jealous type. She was Trish Stratus, after all. What guy wouldn't want to be with her? Or woman, for that matter. And yet, something about the way Maria was touching her new man made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Have you guys fucked?" she blurted, as though there were no filter between her brain and her mouth.

Never had she seen two people jump apart faster than the two on her right at that moment. And never had Randy been so scared to tell the truth. "Um," he choked on his words and gave Christy a withering look when she offered him her water and a beaming grin. "Why do you ask?" he finally managed to strain around the lump in his throat.

With a death glare fixed on Trish, Maria gritted her teeth and spoke slowly, "I thought I already told you that, Trish," she reminded.

Trish thought for a moment and then gasped as the realization hit her. "IT WAS HIM?" she shouted, seemingly forgetting that Randy was even there. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING?" Maria shook her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Turning her shocked look to Randy, Trish smacked his arm.

"OW," Randy cringed, holding the place she had just hit. "What the fuck was that for?" he asked.

Victoria and Christy started laughing, too, and Trish just stared in wide-eyed wonder. "I can't believe you're Mr. Coney Dog," she shook her head.

"Excuse me?" he asked, thoroughly perplexed.

While the women laughed, Trish tried to wrap her head around the information she had just received. The four women in the car had, on more than one occasion, likened themselves to the Sex and the City girls, mostly because they talked about, and nicknamed, all of their sexual conquests. Normally, it was funny. But now that someone else had tagged her man, she wasn't so sure she liked it.

"At least he's not the Candy Man," Christy pointed out.

Maria nearly spit her orange juice all over the back seat as Victoria kindly filled their visitor in on the inside joke. "Maria said you were, like, a foot long, so we call you Mr. Coney Dog," she shrugged.

Though flattered, Randy wasn't sure what to say, do, or look at. Instead, he cleared his throat and tried his damndest to change the subject. "So," he turned to Trish, "I watched this really great Maple Leafs game the other night."

Trish laid a sympathetic hand on his cheek. "Sweetie, hockey season doesn't start for three months," she informed him. The heat in his cheeks ignited her palm, and something primal in her gut. Now she wanted to know for herself, needed to know. "Vic, I need a bathroom break," she spoke without tearing her eyes from Randy's. He was the only man she had ever met who could make her forget her own name with one glance.

Victoria raised an eyebrow in the rear view mirror and then, smiling, nodded and started looking for an exit ramp. Maria interrupted the silence. "Wait, who was the Candy Man again?"

It was Trish's turn to blush as she diverted her eyes from Randy's face and twisted her fingers together in her lap. Quietly, she mumbled "Christian."

"What?" Randy asked, leaning closer. For once, he was glad to not be the humiliated one in the vehicle.

Maria laughed loudly, as if at a joke no one else could hear. "That's right. Christian," she managed through her laughter.

Christy turned compassionate eyes on Randy again and explained the story behind the Candy Man. "Christian has a candy fetish - he likes to eat it during sex," she spoke matter-of-factly, as though it was a piece of information that normally graced their everyday conversation.

Randy was starting to think that it probably was. But he knew Christian. He had heard Captain Charisma's stories, and seen some of them first hand. Eating candy was hardly the strangest thing Randy could imagine the older man doing. "Oh," was all he said.

But Christy shook her hair and looked at him pointedly. "He likes to EAT it." She was met with another blank look. "Like out of. . ."

"OH," Randy answered loudly before she finished the sentence.

Trish listened as Randy laughed, and then stopped short. "_3. . .2. . .1_," she counted in her head and then raised her head to meet his eye sheepishly. Nodding, she put a hand on his thigh again.

He felt like a naive kid, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Isn't that, like, sticky?"

Sensing a need to save her friend, Victoria answered his question. "Not like it's not already sticky anyway."

Regaining some sense of his old self, Randy raised an eyebrow and licked his lips in Trish's direction. "Sticky," he smiled and she blushed a deep, beautiful shade of pink. Kissing her forehead, he turned his eyes back to the road before them. "Where's that bathroom, Vic?"

Trish felt his hand cover hers, her heart racing. Flirting was her specialty. Flirting with hot guys using plenty of innuendo wasn't hard. But with him, it was different. Everything was different. Everything was new. It was fresh and sweet and exciting again. Even a rendezvous in a public bathroom seemed innocent again, if not a little disgusting. The Trish that fucked Hunter in a janitor's closet didn't exist with Randy. And the Randy who had orgied with strippers and groupies was nowhere to be found in her eyes.

"EW," Maria spouted randomly, shaking her head as though she had just tasted something awful. When all eyes turned to her, she giggled. "Remember Batman?"

Three begrudging groans met that comment, and though he was dying to ask, Randy just tightened his grip on Trish's hand and decided against pressing the issue. If there was anything he had learned about girls over his lifetime, it was that they loved having in-jokes with their friends. And even more, they loved teasing the men around them with said jokes.

"What about Lord Byron?" Victoria laughed as she guided the car into the parking lot of a truck stop/gas station. Cutting the engine, she turned in her seat and took Christy's hand. "If I had a thousand years, and millions of words, I could never fully describe the extent of your infinite beauty."

Trish laughed and rolled her eyes, before winking at Randy. "Wanna help me find the bathroom?"

He only nodded as they ignored the teasing of the women in the car and headed for the building, hand in hand. Rubbing her palm with his thumb, he stopped midway down the potato chip aisle. "I'm about to pull a really girlie move here," he mumbled, more to himself than her.

Trish turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, staring up into his crystal eyes. "You don't wanna fuck in a bathroom, do you?"

He shook his head and that little blush she loved so much started creeping into the tips of his ears. "Not with you. Not the first time." He bent his knees slightly and kissed the end of her nose, bringing out that giggle he loved so much. "Don't think I don't wanna fuck you in every imaginable place," he added hastily, blushing a little at the innuendo of his words. "It's just that this thing, with us, is," he stopped and she could see him searching for the right word to describe their relationship.

"Special?" she interjected. Randy nodded and licked his lips, as though it was the corniest thing he could have said. But Trish just raised onto her toes and kissed him softly. "I know." Returning her feet to the floor, she gave his hand a light squeeze and winked.

Never, in twenty-five years, had he ever told a woman "no." Especially not one he liked as much as Trish. But even as those words floated through his mind, he knew it was a lie. Because there was no one he had ever liked as much as Trish. And as strange as it seemed, watching her with her friends only made him more sure that he wanted to be with her. That first night on the roof, she had proven she could be comfortable with his friends. Now he felt welcome among hers, too. Not for the first time, the word "commitment" raced through his mind.

She watched as a myriad of emotions flitted over his beautiful face. There were so many things she still wanted to ask, needed to know, about Randy Orton. But for now, she was content to know that they were special. Different. Unique. "So," she put her arms around his neck and gave him her best "innocent" eyes. "You wanna wait for awhile?"

Randy growled and lifted her feet from the ground in a tight hug. "Yeah," he smiled and put her back down. Checking his watch, he shot her the trademarked Orton smirk. "We should make it to the hotel in about twenty minutes. I'm thinking we wait till then."

Trish laughed as they turned and headed back toward the car, and her friends. "Ya know what I like about you, Orton?" she asked suddenly.

Raising an eyebrow, he reached for the door handle. "My incredible good looks?" She shook her head. "My wit? My charm? My enormous package?"

Climbing into the truck, Trish shook her head, noting that everyone inside the vehicle was now staring at the couple. As Randy settled in beside her, she rested her head on his shoulder and wove her fingers through his. She wanted to tell him how she loved that he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world that really mattered. She wanted to say that she was dangerously close to being in love.

Instead, she sighed contentedly and breathed one simple word that made his heart pound and his palms sweat. "Everything."


	4. Just Kissing

**Star Gazers**

**_A/N: So, I was about to put this story on the shelf - consider it done after the last chapter, because it was only supposed to be a short story in the first place. But someone pointed out that Trish and Randy never did the deed, and apparently this story needs some smut. So, as a word of warning, there's some sexual content in this chapter. Hope that doesn't offend you - and if it does? I guess just don't read this installment - it's not really vital to the plot or anything. Also, in the beginning, I said this story was only three chapters long - I've changed it to five. But ONLY five, Jhanelle. I've got other stories to think about, too. Anyway - on with the smutty fluff. Enjoy!

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With Raw and Smackdown going head-to-head at Survivor Series, Randy felt like a kid in a candy store. All of his friends were always around and his girlfriend shared his hotel room every night. He would spend an hour or two on the roof with the boys, and then endure their teasing as he slipped away to be alone with Trish. They could all laugh, call him whipped, whatever – it didn't phase him one bit. He was in love, and he could care less what anyone else had to say about it. All talk inside the ring and on television might have been about Team Raw v. Team Smack Down, but behind the curtain, all anyone could seem to discuss was how Trish Stratus had managed to "break" Randy Orton.

They could talk about "taming" all they wanted, but Trish knew the truth. There was nothing docile or well-behaved about Randy. Sure, he was no longer three-waying with Brazillian strippers or Swedish bikini models. But his attention, once divided between two or more women at one time, was now solely focused on Trish, and she was not complaining. She had been seduced and gently handled, and it hadn't been enough. Randy's exuberant, youthful, animalistic desire was exactly what her body craved, and he seemed to realize that without being told.

Their relationship was serious in that they were committed fully to each other, and only each other. But there was a sense of playfulness between them that kept things from getting monotonous or ponderous. It was always exciting, always thrilling, and always hot. Of course, they had only been dating for six months, but neither showed any signs of "growing up" the relationship any time soon.

The atmosphere backstage at the final house show before Survivor Series was electric – both brands ready to put on a show the fans would never forget. An hour before show time, Trish sat on a couch in Randy's dressing room, an internal conflict brewing in her chest. Dressed only in her panties and the corseted top that would serve as her shirt for the evening, she cast a sidelong glance at her boyfriend. He was beside her, in only his trunks, staring at her while she read a magazine. She was loving the attention, but the professional side of her brain said that they should both be preparing for the matches they would take part in later that evening.

"Randy," she finally groaned, pushing him away and attempting to put a little distance between herself and her boyfriend on the couch.

His lip curled up into that Legend Killer smirk, and he watched as a pink tint crept into Trish's cheeks, seemingly of its own volition. "What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"We both have matches tonight," she tried to scold. But the longer he shot that glance at her, the harder it was to hold her ground. Damn his impish grin and his glinting blue eyes.

With a shrug of his muscular shoulders, he flopped back on the couch and sank against the soft leather arm. "So?" he asked, sticking his lower lip out slightly.

"So," she started, tossing her magazine to the side before standing and stretching her arms over her head. More than anything, she wanted to grab that lip between her teeth and suck it until he moaned and writhed beneath her. But there would be time for that later – after the show. Sure, she was madly in love with the man, but she couldn't let her job suffer because of it. "We should be getting ready."

"Baby, look at me," he winked, casting an appreciative glance over his own form. "I was born ready." With another smirk, he looked her over as she stood before him. "And you. . ."

She watched his eyes float over her figure and laughed. "I don't think we're talking about the same thing," she chuckled.

When he looked back into her eyes, Randy saw what she wasn't saying. Of course they were talking about the same thing. She would never admit it out loud, but wrestling was the furthest thing from her mind – and it was obvious in her hazel stare. "Oh, I think we're on the same page," he growled, reaching a long arm out.

She just watched as he wrapped his fingers around hers and pulled her closer. "Randy, I'm serious – we can't afford to be distracted." Narrowing her eyes, she raised a sculpted brow and shook her head. "Remember last time?"

He did. And he also remembered the subsequent fine that followed their tardiness after a pre-match "session." But it didn't keep a sly smile from creeping in before he could try to cover it. "Come here," he whispered, pulling her tiny form into his lap. "We don't have to do anything, baby – but if I don't kiss you right now," he took a dramatic breath and looked at her through thick lashes. "I might die."

This time, she didn't try to hide the laughter bubbling up in her throat. As her giggle filled the room, she threw her arms around Randy's neck and rested her head against his. "Well, I wouldn't want to kill you," she sighed. As his lips found her neck again, his fingers fumbled with the laces on the back of her top. Smacking him lightly, she pulled back and pointed a manicured nail in his face. "Just kissing."

He rolled his eyes at the warning and then leaned back on the couch as Trish straddled his lap and slid her tongue into his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure she understood what she did to him. She could insist that they only kiss, but she couldn't possibly know that the feeling of her lips against his was enough to make him hard instantly. She couldn't be aware that her tongue in his mouth was just as erotic as her naked form sliding against his. If she had the slightest inkling, she wouldn't have asked this of him.

Trish sighed contentedly and pushed her body against his, forcing him back further into the couch, her hands in his hair as she plunged her tongue further into the recesses of his warm mouth. Her hands trailed from his hair to his neck, her nails scraping gently against his smooth skin, as she automatically started grinding her hips into his.

Taking her motions as an invitation, Randy flipped them over, lying comfortably over her on the couch. With one hand, his thumb stroked her cheek as he tore his lips from hers and moved them down to her throat. The groan he elicited from deep within her made him harder than he had been previously, and he knew this was going to be more than kissing.

With her head thrown back, Trish arched her back against his body, rubbing her foot up the back of his bare leg as he dipped his head to caress her collarbone with his hungry lips. His tongue ignited tiny fires all along her collarbone as she grasped his shoulders and felt her self-control slipping. _"Kissing" my ass_, she thought as he sat back and shot her another grin.

"Someone's breaking the rules," she managed to chide with a soft smile, brushing a handful of her thick locks away from her face.

He gave another shrug. "Someone's not complaining," he pointed out, looking her over before boldly lowering his hand and rubbing it over her panties. "In fact," he licked his lips and met her eyes again, "I think someone kinda likes it."

She knew that denying it was pointless – clearly, he could feel just how much she liked it. But she wasn't about to admit it in words. Raising her leg, she brushed her knee against his raging erection and shot a smirk of her own in his direction. "Oh, look," she leered, "I'm not the only one enjoying the kissing game."

There was nothing to do but surrender, in Randy's opinion. It wasn't like he could hide how much he liked laying on top of her. Instead of speaking, he merely held her gaze in his and slid a finger into her wetness without warning. The tiny gasp she emitted was all the encouragement he needed.

"Stop," Trish sighed, closing her eyes and allowing her head to fall onto the arm of the couch behind her.

"You mean it?" He was fairly certain he knew the answer, but he wasn't about to risk it. If Trish didn't want to do this – if she really wanted him to stop – he would stop. He wouldn't like it, but he would stop.

She shook her head and gasped again as he added another finger and slowly slid them further inside her heated core. "No," she whispered over another gaping breath.

After a few more deep thrusts, Randy withdrew his fingers and waited for her to open her eyes. When she did, he shrugged slightly. "We have matches to prep for," he reminded her, sitting back on the couch.

Trish groaned and wiggled on the couch, managing to pull herself into a half-seated position while glaring at him. There was something so cocky, so indescribably sexy, about her man. It was, quite possibly, the one quality that turned her on, and pissed her off, more than any other he possessed.

With a nod of concession, she sat the rest of the way and leaned toward him until her chest was pressed against his. His body heat penetrated the thick fabric of the corset and Trish found herself caring less and less about whatever show the fans had paid to see. The performance she was about to put on was far more exciting, in her opinion.

Randy felt his skin begin to tingle as she wound one hand around his neck and pulled his ear close to her lips, while the fingers of her other hand made their way down his chest and over his toned abs. Those touches alone were enough to make him crazy, and he was fairly certain she was well-aware of that fact as his lips parted and enveloped the soft skin of her shoulder.

Sliding her hand around his back, she tugged on his trunks and groaned a slight grunt of frustration into his ear. "We should be working," she reminded him.

Barely paying attention to her words, he covered her hand with his and slid it around to the front of his trunks. "So work," he stated, his voice edging with the slightly hint of a command.

She pulled his trunks down, at least enough to free his erection, and then wrapped a tight fist around him as he returned his ass to the couch. Already on her knees, she felt her entire body relax, as if holding him was some sort of sedative. She sank to the couch, sort of sitting and sort of kneeling, as she smiled confidently at him. "This isn't what I had in mind."

Rolling his eyes, Randy hooked his thumbs in the sides of her panties and tugged on them. When she didn't budge, he narrowed his eyes. She could tell he was doing everything in his power to stay in control. And she also knew that he was failing miserably. Finally, he sighed. "Move your ass, Stratus."

She rose up once again as he yanked on her lacy panties, pulling them down to her thighs. Letting go of him, she stood and kicked the underwear on the floor before giving him another grin. "You want this?" she asked, seeing the answer staring back at her in his lap.

With a childish huff, he nodded to the evidence in question before returning the smirk and sliding his trunks to the floor. "Ya know, we wouldn't be late every time if you didn't insist on being so damn difficult," he pointed out.

Moving toward him slowly, Trish shook her hair and straddled his lap, lowering herself onto him. All thoughts of witty retorts dissipated for a moment as he filled her completely. Even after six months, she still found his size somewhat of a shocking invasion, something to get used to every time they were together. But she wasn't complaining.

"Ya know what I think, Orton," she said thoughtfully, draping her arms around his shoulders as she squirmed around on him for a second.

If he'd had an answer, there was no way he could have given it at that moment. Surrounded by Trish's tight, wet heat, his brain went numb. Not that he wasn't used to that. It had been his custom for years to let his dick do the thinking, to let it feel for him when his head just wasn't in the game.

But Trish was different. Not just because she was the hottest woman he had ever fucked. But because, for the first time in his life, it wasn't just his body that sprang to life when they came together – his soul felt like it was on fire, ignited by the deafening thump in his heart that her presence always brought.

"I think," Trish interrupted his thoughts again, leaning forward to kiss him briefly. "I think if you spent half as much time on everything else in your life as you do on wrestling and fucking, you might be surprised at how well-rounded you could be."

The twinkle in her eyes meant that she was expecting some snappy comeback. He nodded and set his hands on her hips as she began riding him in a slow rhythm. "Maybe you're right," he conceded through clenched teeth as he slid a little further down in his seat, and further up into her. "But what else do I need," he stopped as his hips began to move with her, a slight mumble accompanying his motion, "to be good at?"

A loud, whining cry of pleasure flowed over Trish's lips as she dug her fingernails into his back and sped her pace slightly. "You could read," she gasped and sank harder against him, "or you could, I don't know," another gasp escaped her throat, "take up a hobby."

A small smile tweaked his lips as he opened his mouth to speak. "I'll take," a desperate grunt interrupted his words as he drove upward again, watching her close her eyes and mutter something from the '_Oh God'_ family. "Stamp collecting," he sighed, knowing it probably didn't make much sense.

And therein laid the dichotomy for Randy. Being with Trish never made sense – he could never quite help feeling like he didn't deserve her in the least, that she was just too good for him. But, at the same time, she was the only thing that made sense – he could no longer imagine a world, either before or ever again, that didn't have her sweet smile and lilting laugh. She made him feel complex, like he had more than one side, and that the complexity was a good thing.

"Ahhhhhh," Trish moaned, though she hadn't meant to. Her intention was to agree with him, but the angle at which he was hitting her spot forced any other intelligent conversation out of her head. The smirk on his face told her he knew exactly what he had done, but her pride wouldn't allow he to admit the truth. Instead, she just rolled her eyes and tried to hold on a little bit longer.

They were no longer teasing, and Randy realized that he was having to forcibly hold Trish's hips in place as she bounced on him, sweat beginning to drip from her golden skin. They were both gasping, panting, grunting, and groaning. Every now and then, Trish would let out a little yelp, and Randy would mutter "fuck" under his heavy breath, but their playful banter had subsided, it seemed.

No other man had ever managed to make her feel cute, silly, sexy, and completely desirable all at one time. No other man had ever convinced her to fuck in a dressing room before a show, let alone every show for the last six months. And no other man had ever gotten that look in his eyes when he was with her, sexually or otherwise.

The way his gaze bore into her all of the time was enough to make her a little horny. But the way his bright eyes clouded, darkened, and narrowed in unadulterated lust every time he was buried inside her was enough to make her come undone.

And sometimes it was just too much. As she felt her climax building, she reached a hand out and covered his crystal blue stare, shielding it from her view. She feared, quite frankly, the violent tenacity of the orgasm she would unleash if she was forced focus on that stare much longer.

Randy lifted one hand from her hip, wrapped her hand in his, and lowered it from his eyes. "Come on, baby," he encouraged with a grin. "Let me see you."

Since she wasn't sure how to explain that it was more for her benefit than his, she just plastered on a smile. What followed was a sudden, body-shaking sensation as Randy wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face to his. Instead of kissing her, he leaned toward her shoulder and sucked her earlobe between his lips.

She could feel his heart beating against her chest, his breath on her face, and his body tangled with hers. Placing tiny kisses along his neck and jaw, she moaned in his ear and knew that it wouldn't be much longer now.

Randy felt enlightened, as if a light had been turned on inside his head, and in his soul. He was more sure now than he had ever been about anything in his life. It was as if, in that moment, the secrets of the universe had been revealed, just for them.

Trish let her lips hover over Randy's ear, just as he moved his to hers. There was no hesitation, no 'you go first,' though it was clear they both had something to say. Without thinking, or waiting, Trish mumbled "You make me feel alive when you're inside me," at the same time that Randy whispered, "I feel like I'm only alive inside you."

And then they came.


	5. Breathing

**Star Gazers**

**_A/N: Wow, I can't believe I finally finished a story. I was starting to believe I would never know that feeling again. Well, this is it, Kids. The final installment of Star Gazers. What was originally intended as a short little ficlet turned into something a little sappier, fluffier, and longer than I expected. I hope that's okay with you. It should be noted that this chapter was heavily inspired by "Breathing" by Lifehouse. There is a line in the chorus that says "I want nothing more than to sit outside heaven's door and listen to you breathing." That's what got me thinking about this chapter - so either thank or blame Jason Wade, and those other guys in Lifehouse, for being my muses. As always, Enjoy! Oh, and I don't own Randy or Trish - obviously.

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It was inevitable, really. The proposal was just as spectacular as their entire relationship had been. The ring was as flashy as their public displays of affection had been. And the engagement party was as raucous as their whirlwind union had been from day one. Alcohol, strippers, exotic foods, and loud music filled the hotel ballroom as the happy couple clung to each other in the center of the room. If there was one thing about them everybody knew, it was that they were not shy about expressing their desire for one another.

Trish looked up from the dance floor and smiled to herself. _Jesus, I thought this day would never come_, she thought as she wrapped her arms around Randy's neck and pressed her body closer to his. Tilting her head back, she let his lips brush her neck as her eyes swept over the banner above their heads which read "Congratulations, Amy and Adam."

"You about ready to get outta here?" Randy's breath brushed her ear as they swayed to the heavy bass line penetrating the room. He loved a good party as much as anyone, and strippers and sushi made for a great party. Had the gathering been on any other night, Randy would have been more than happy to hang all night. He would have been thrilled with the prospect of staying until Trish had to drag his drunk ass back to their room.

But Trish didn't need to hear the words to know that tonight was different. It might have been Amy and Adam's engagement, but it was her anniversary. A year had passed since she had spent her first night on the roof with the Legend Killer, and Trish couldn't wait to commemorate it with another night of star gazing and mindless chit chat. Sure, she loved dancing with him, waking up next to him, long road trips, and pre-show warm up sessions. All of those things made their relationship fresh and exciting.

But nothing made her as blissfully content as the nights they would lie on a hotel balcony or roof and stare up at the sky, quietly musing about whatever was in their heads at the moment. And she loved, more than anything, that she didn't have to tell Randy that for him to know it. She didn't have to tell him anything. He just knew.

After a quick "good-bye" to their friends, and the guests of honor, Randy led Trish by the hand toward the elevator. They stood close as they were transported to their own private island in the sky. It was dorky, but that's how she felt every time she and Randy got a spare moment alone on the roof. When his friends were too busy getting laid, usually by her friends, they would steal away to their getaway spot and chill. Sometimes he would bring champagne, sometimes it was just beer. Sometimes they just held each other until the sun came up, no alcohol needed.

Randy held the door and waited as Trish slipped past him and walked toward the ledge. She was beautiful all the time, no doubt. But something about his girl in the twinkling of moonlight was breathtaking. She wore black dress pants and a "I Brake for Drummers" tee shirt. Her blonde hair was tossled, and her make up was dark. All of the divas had dressed for Amy's Rock Queen party, but Trish had outshined them all. Of course, she always did, in his opinion.

As she turned, the fedora on her head slid a little further over one eye. She said nothing, only smiled as she took her seat and held out a hand to him. It seemed as if no words were needed, and he walked to her easily, leather pants squeaky slightly against the stillness of the North Carolina air. If ever a man had looked like rock and roll royalty, Randy wore the crown with pride. She had never seen him looking quite so, well, she couldn't put it into words. "Grrrr" was the only thing that came to mind as she watched him lower himself, leather pants, Metallica tee shirt, and all to the ground beside her.

Randy rested their entwined hands on his thigh and stared up at the sky once more as Trish removed her hat and rested her head on his shoulder. It was one of those moments where no words were needed. Their comfortable silence spoke volumes, and listening to her steady breathing was enough. If they never said another word to each other – never shared another confession of love, or plea of desire, he could be content knowing that she was simply breathing at his side.

"You make me feel perfect," Trish said lazily, her eyes drifting shut as Randy let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She was the Woman's Champion – strong and independent. But resting in his arms made her feel fragile. Over the last year, she had struggled to put into words exactly how Randy Orton made her feel about herself, and their relationship. Several times, she had surrendered to the idea that no word would ever describe them. Tonight, though, they felt perfect.

With a soft chuckle, Randy pulled her closer to his side. "I could remind you that you sometimes burp in your sleep." She nudged his side with her elbow. "Or that your feet smell like corn chips when you take your boots off after a match."

Turning slightly in his arms, she twisted up her nose. "Let's don't even start on the gas, Orton. The horrible wet burrito gas." He laughed with pride and gave her a smirk. "Or the fact that your post-match body odor could kill small children and animals."

He moved his arm to her knee. "Hey now," he raised his voice slightly. "We could talk about how you drool on your pillow on every flight," he suggested.

Nodding in concession, Trish took his hand and leaned her forehead against his. "Or, I know, let's talk about how you always manage to somehow end up with Dorito crumbs in your hair after you watch football."

By the time they had created a laundry list of imperfections, both Randy and Trish were rolling hysterically. Laughing until her sides hurt was not something new with Randy, but Trish found that it never got old. Watching his blue eyes squint up until tears flowed down his smooth cheeks was one of her favorite things to do. Listening to him gasp for a breath, trying to beat her to the next punchline, always made her giggle even harder.

Once they both settled into a comfortable embrace, tiny chuckles spontaneously filling the air from time to time, Trish began to think again. "I just meant that you make me feel like I'm special, worth holding on to. Without a word, you make me feel like there's nobody else you want."

Maybe it was the mood of the evening, the party they had been to. Maybe it was because this was their anniversary. "You wanna get married?" Randy asked.

Trish nodded and leaned back against his arm. "Someday," she answered. Any time one of their friends talked about getting married, Trish and Randy would throw jokes around, make a lot of cracks about how marriage wasn't for everybody, and they didn't want to complicate their sexual relationship with anything as boring or monotonous as commitment.

As though his mouth had developed it's own independent thinking, Randy heard his own voice sound the words, "To me?" She just tilted her face to his and rolled her eyes. "I'm serious," he stated.

He was. She could see it in his eyes. It wasn't the fairy tale, Cinderella proposal she had always longed for as a kid. It wasn't even the proposal after great sex that Amy had boasted about in the locker room. But it was pure Orton. It was the man she had fallen in love with on a rooftop not unlike the one they were now seated on, only a year ago.

The way he softly rubbed his thumb over her palm, innocently leaned his shoulder into hers. The way he would look at her, and then the sky, and then back, almost blushing in the silver twilight. It was all reminiscent of that night. With a slight nod, she leaned forward and kissed his nose. "I think I do."

Pulling her back into his arms, Randy realized something. A year ago, he could barely find enough words to talk about the fucking stars and the Easter Bunny with her. And now, as he laid with the same woman under those same stars, he realized that he was at a loss for words again. And just like that night, he found that he didn't need to fill every silence with sound. Sometimes the stillness was more than enough for both of them.

A tiny whisper rose from Trish's body as she began to recite the nursery rhyme her mother had taught her as a child. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight."

He tightened his grip on her waist as she wished to the heaven's for a happily-ever-after. He said nothing, only kissed the top of her head, and thanked his own lucky stars for a night on the roof with the guys a year earlier.


End file.
